


like sand, like cinder

by Recluse



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Build up, M/M, canonverse, extended s support dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recluse/pseuds/Recluse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little things that grow bigger with each grain. </p><p>(Like the dim fire at night where they meet, and like the daily habits they can no longer shake.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like sand, like cinder

When he wakes up, there's nothing but sand against his face, swirling, gritty, and the hot dry taste of desert on his tongue.

But he is alive.

 

It becomes apparent, after the first hour, that he may be in dire straits.

As far as he can see, there is nothing but sand, dune after dune, no water nor town or anything, not even a stray cactus. He hears nothing but the wind and the soft shift of sand against sand, grain after grain sliding across each other with a gentle shh.

He wonders if he left the future just to die an earlier death (time travel is so strange, really), shakes the thought from his mind quickly and continues on, despite the heat.

His mother's hat stays firm on his head, for which he is grateful. At least someone is with him.

 

He's near collapsing, he's certain, when he sees a village gate. He picks up his pace, nearly trips over dips in the sand, thinks that possibly, just possibly, just maybe he's made it, and if not, he thinks maybe he can find a way.

 

The village takes to him kindly, seeing him so weak, and he stays, but they know little of news outside the desert.

Laurent knows the moment he asks the date that he's made a mistake.

The world begins to swirl around him, like sand in the wind, nothing but blackness, and then he begins to disappear, sifting away, his mother's hat just out of reach--

 

* * *

 

\--He wakes up with a jolt, sharp breaths and sweat running down his brow. An unfortunate dream. A nightmare.

But nothing more than that.

He glances around him, the tent walls dark, somehow foreboding, and quietly he shuffles his boots on. He can't fall back asleep, not after such a stimulating dream, his heart is still jumping, hands shaking with nerves brought on by nothing but an image. He pushes his tent flaps away and steps out into the crisp night.

It's to his surprise that Gerome is outside, sitting by the fire pit. Minerva is nowhere to be seen, though Laurent is certain she's somewhere close.

If Laurent remembers the schedule properly, Gerome isn't on watch duty this evening. If anything, he should be asleep in his tent at this time, though Laurent hardly has the space to speak.

But he speaks anyway, calling out to him quietly.

"Gerome?"

He's turns as if he had known that he was there the whole time, but Laurent notices the way his shoulders relax, just barely, once he turns the whole way around.

"Laurent. What are you doing up this late?" He asks, but doesn't move as Laurent takes a tentative seat next to him.

"It seems to be a restless night. I had trouble sleeping." Not the full truth, but truth enough, especially now.

"Though, I could ask the same to you. You were not supposed to be on watch duty today, were you?"

Gerome doesn't answer him immediately, takes a moment to stare at his tent, where, ah, Laurent sees, at the side of it, Minerva is sleeping.

"I rarely sleep early."

"Really." Laurent frowns. "That must be detrimental to your health. Sleep is necessary for proper function, after all."

"I've learned to function fine without much of it."

Gruff, but Laurent wonders if he can hear his own weariness. Gerome has always seemed weary, a fair thing, Laurent thinks, but now he wonders just how much of that weariness is simply due to lack of sleep.

"You should sleep. I'll take over watch duties, if you'd like." He frowns again. "Though, whoever left their duties to you should apologize for inconviencing you like this."

"I offered to take this watch. It's not a problem."

"Is that...So?" Laurent pauses, considers a moment before continuing. "Still, if you rarely sleep early, you should take this chance. I doubt I'll be able to sleep again until far later, and you seem rather worn out."

When he says that, an odd thing happens. Gerome sighs, almost, a long exhale, and the surprise quickly forces Laurent to backtrack, worried that he's caused some sort of offense. "Not to say that you've been subpar, or anything of the sort, just, sleep is a necessary function one must perform in order to be at optimal levels. You already perform quite well, however, I'm sure you would be at ease if you could sleep more."

Gerome stays quiet, and Laurent tries his best not to question further, feeling that he's already said too much.

"...You may be right." He says with a familiar weariness, "But I rarely sleep well."

"Why?" A longer pause. Laurent quickly adds, "If it is too personal a reason, there's no need to tell me if you don't wish to. I simply," He struggles for words that convey his meaning, "hope to assist, if possible."

Gerome is silent for a few moments more, and his face says nothing, eyes covered by the mask, unreadable except for the scant downward curve of his mouth.

"...My thoughts keep me awake." It's quiet. Resigned. "Headaches. Nasty things. It's easier to just stay up until they're done."

"Oh. I see."

Laurent exhales then, trying to find a solution. Thoughts are powerful things, he knows, and headaches can be difficult to sleep with. If Gerome gets them often, he can see why he chooses to sleep so little. Or rather, why he sleeps so little at all.

_He did mention it during that festival we'd found...Have they continued since then? Or has he always suffered through them?_

He wants to ask, but that festival had been a bit of a strange time for the both of them. They had been more open, that particular day, for whatever reason, he attributes it to the atmosphere of goodwill during that time. Tonight though, is quieter, the sound of grass shifting in the wind and the occasional grunt from various tents, people turning in their sleep; from Minerva, a small whine before relaxing again. It doesn't seem appropriate to ask now, to remind him of that conversation. Certainly, he's not as talkative as he was that day, that's already clear from the way he speaks, long pauses and short sentences.

So instead he asks, "If I may suggest something?"

"Go ahead." Gerome turns his head to face him, and Laurent continues, oddly nervous.

"You could...Maybe speak freely with someone about your thoughts. Myself, even." He takes a breath, "I wouldn't mind hearing your thoughts, if you wanted to share them. Speaking them out loud may help you think them through more thoroughly, and I could offer suggestions, possibly, on some things. Of course," He feels that he's babbling, but he can't seem to stop, "I would share my thoughts with you, if you wanted to hear them, that is. It would only be fair, and your input is often valuable."

He continues, words stumbling out of his mouth, hasty to leave before he loses his nerve. "As for the headaches...I could find some mild remedies, maybe, with some study. And talking may help with them as well."

Gerome shakes his head.

"There's no need for you to go that far. I'm fine with this." He smiles, at least, Laurent thinks he does, the mask and the night and the shadows of the flickering firelight make it hard to tell. "Thank you for the thought, though."

"I must insist, anytime you feel comfortable, you can come speak with me." He shifts, trying to shake some stiffness that crept up on him while they were speaking. "And I do plan to do research on headache remedies, even though you say that you're fine without them. It seems like a fairly useful course of study in general." He pauses, then adds, "I do know Robin and Morgan often get them. It would be rather detrimental to let our tactician suffer from headaches, as well as some of our finest fighters."

Gerome turns away when he says that, but his voice is soft when he replies, "If that's what you want. But for now, shouldn't you be going back to your tent? It's getting late."

"Early, you mean." Laurent smiles ruefully, though he's sure Gerome can't see it through the mask. He wonders for a moment if it gives him trouble with his peripherals, but he doesn't extend the thought, chooses instead to get up and say, "But yes, you are right. I think I can sleep soundly now. Thank you for speaking with me, Gerome."

"It was no trouble." He waves him off. "You're easy to speak with."

"Still, thank you. It's always a pleasure to converse with you." He dusts off the back of his night clothes and walks away, back to his tent with the dying shadows not far behind.

The dawn is just barely breaking when he reaches it, pushing the flap open. He sits on his bed and pulls off his boots, setting his glasses down on the small table next to him before lying down.  
  
As he closes his eyes once more, he hopes for better dreams.

* * *

"Ah, Gerome. If you have a moment..."

"Hm? What is it?"

"I'm making my rounds now. Would you like to come again?" He smiles, feeling oddly chipper, though nothing particularly good has happened in the time since he's gone to bed. That's not to say anything bad has occurred, but he can't find any logical reason behind why he feels so bright. His talk last night with Gerome was hardly one that raised spirits, though he had slept well after, a pleasant surprise. That might be it, but something tells him that isn't the case, it's a different reason than just a decent night of sleep. Though, what makes him so sure of that he's not so sure of.

"You were quite helpful the last time you came with me. You've got a sharp eye and a sound mind when thinking of possible future battles, and you take the budget into consideration far more than others like to." He pauses, then adds, "And everyone was quite glad to speak with you, as I thought. I would appreciate it greatly if you came with me again, unless you're busy, of course."

"I'll go. I wasn't doing much." Gerome rises from the crate he'd been sitting on. "Minerva?"

She's right by his side, curled up and resting on the ground. Her head rises when he calls her name and she trills in a way that is, frankly, rather grating, but it seems to please him, and he spends a moment giving her a fond pat. Laurent makes a mental note of that particular sound, categorizes it among several noises he's heard Minerva make as a good one. While Minerva was usually not privy to their reports, she had been with him a few times, enough for her to recognize Laurent with a noise that Gerome said was supposed to be a greeting, a standard one for friends.

She chirps at him with said sound, turning her head further to look at him before turning back to Gerome.

"We'll be doing rounds. Stay here." His voice is warm with affection, rare to hear. "Relax. You've earned it."

She chirps again, a different, softer sound, and nudges Gerome with her snout before lying back down. She seems to be in bliss, Laurent thinks, looking at her curled up in the sun.

"Well then, let's go."

"Certainly."

They fall into step with each other fairly quickly, side by side as they examine the campgrounds, speaking to others and examining their specific troubles in camp, as well as looking over the army's stock of supplies.

Gerome rarely speaks more than a few sentences, blunt words to each and every person they encounter, but that isn't so bad. It may take more time for him to build firm relations, but there is hope nonetheless, Laurent is certain. It is just his nature, he thinks, to be frank, and there's a certain awkwardness to him that Laurent hadn't quite noticed before. He sees it now, watching him interact with the other soldiers, the stiffness in his shoulders as well as the way he speaks. He's not very at ease when speaking with the others, which Laurent finds rather strange, considering that, when they speak with each other, Gerome is almost never so tense, indeed, when he thinks back, he hardly remembers Gerome being anything other than straightforward. Not tense, nor relaxed, at the start of their correspondence, but without the strange tension in his shoulders that shows here.

A warm thought. A feeling, almost like the glow of a fire, grows, burns in his chest and startles him, just a moment's confusion, bewilderment at the suddenness of it all. But before he can dwell on it, Gerome moves on and he shakes himself out of it, saying goodbye to the solider they had been speaking to and quickly catching up.

He pushes the feeling aside, returning his focus to the task at hand. It would be rude to be so distracted when Gerome is doing his most to assist him.

And assist Gerome does. His straightforward and logical approach to problems is familiar and easy to understand, and their discussions are quick to reach resolutions without much hangup. Indeed, they seem to agree for the most part on what's needed and what isn't, and what they disagree on, they compromise within a few minutes of discussion. They finish quicker than he's used to like that, and he wonders what to do with the spare hour. Usually, by the time he's done with the rounds, it's about dinner, and his routine is already set for him. He could study a few more tomes, but his mother, Tharja, and Robin had planned to do so today, and the amount of space where the tomes were was barely enough for one, let alone three. So instead he mulls it over, recounting if he's done the books for this week or if not enough time has passed for him to do them.

_Oh, but first!_

"Gerome," He turns to him, "Thank you for accompanying me! Your insight proved advantageous, as expected. And you've strengthened your ties with the others as well! It would be superb if you were to join me again next week."

"I might." He shrugs. "It was good to see things from up close again."

"Yes, a different perspective does lend itself to a wider scope of thought, as well as a better understanding of how things work, generally speaking."

He nods, looks contemplative, and Laurent finds himself feeling warm again when Gerome says, "Tell me the next time you go."

* * *

They go in a pair, after that day, daily, weekly meetings spent discussing the logistics of the camp, speaking to the others about various topics, suggestions. While the time spent on rounds decreases with the split workload, Laurent finds himself spending more time with Gerome, even after the rounds, just...Conversing. For all that Gerome tries to act the lone wolf, he speaks freely with him about a myriad of trivial subjects. He complains about Inigo's willfulness, speaks about unusual moments involving Minerva, discusses various fighting stances and notes even the smallest mistakes, ones that Laurent never would have known otherwise. That information is enlightening, and Laurent finds himself better on the battlefield for it -- able to see the enemy's movements quicker, dodge faster -- but the other information is...While not necessarily helpful or useful in any way, still enjoyable to hear about.

In some ways, the pleasure is derived from pride. He's proud that Gerome feels he can speak to him in such a relaxed manner, about things that don't necessarily relate just to the camp or battle. It's no secret that Gerome is usually quiet, rough and quick to the point, but with him he spends more and more of his time leisurely speaking, telling him about Minerva's little habits, her quirks and how fond he is of her, even though he denies it, about how frustrated, and subtextually, flustered, he gets with their other comrades-in-arms -- things that he would probably not share with others. It feels good to be regarded so highly, especially by someone so usually guarded.

Though, even as he's far more relaxed when they're alone, when they spar together he's still fierce, unforgiving. Maybe even more so, given that Laurent had told him of the basics of magic in exchange for his knowledge on combat weaponry and use, he'd felt at the time that doing so would make it fair. He'd just told him the general time it took to cast a spell depending on the type and style of the caster, and what little things made casts more powerful and what would deter the flow, but Gerome had a way of working together information until it benefited him. He was a formidable ally and a formidable foe, no doubt, Laurent thinks so as he once again tries to cast a basic Wind spell to knock Minerva off course and maybe get Gerome off her blasted back. Oh, wyvern riders could be so much trouble, for how long it took to cast some spells...!

He manages it just in time, when Gerome and Minerva swoop in on him from above, hurtling at a terrifying speed, he casts a simple Wind.

Unable to dodge properly at that range, Minerva tumbles, and with her, Gerome. Laurent propels himself backwards with the force, giving them some distance as he skids on his boots, barely balanced. But the time spent skidding is enough time for him to cast an Elwind, send a greater gust before Minerva's oriented herself. Not his best cast, or with the most power, but the greater force serves to be enough. Minerva rolls in air, wings unable to straighten out within the gust, and Gerome falls off her with a hard, concerning thud.

Laurent waits a moment. Gerome rises quickly, axe still in hand, and it's only when Laurent sees he's all right that he casts the Elfire that's been waiting on his tongue.

Gerome dodges that one, moves smartly to the left and then charges, and Laurent moves only to find Minerva coming at him from his right.

A difficult position to be caught in. He only manages to dodge the both of them due to quick thinking -- a quick Wind spell and a dodge roll that he almost fails because his robes are too thick, he holds out his hand, spell on the tip of his tongue, just as Gerome has the blunt end of his axe at his head.

There's a pause. The both of them are breathing heavily, and Laurent can feel his heart thumping, pounding in anticipation, ready to fight to the last.

Gerome moves first, lowering his axe with a nod.

"A draw, then."

"Yes, it would seem so."

He holds out a hand to help Laurent up, one which he takes with great appreciation.

When their palms make contact, a strange shiver crawls up his arm and down his spine. Despite the both of them wearing gloves, it almost feels as if they aren't, which Laurent finds highly illogical. The feeling makes him self conscious, to a degree, even though he knows that they aren't actually touching skin to skin, the feeling that creeps up and about him is almost electrifying in a way that isn't pleasant nor unpleasant. A strange, foreign sensation, a tingling up his arm that reaches his already flushed cheeks. A sensation that demands further study, though, the replication of such a feeling would probably be circumstantial and challenging to recreate.

Minerva whines, then, just as their hands drop, she nudges Gerome from behind and seems to catch him off guard. Unprepared for her push, he falls forward right into Laurent. They take a tumble, the both of them now on the ground, Laurent hitting the dirt on his back with a nasty thud that is sure to hurt later, and Gerome landing atop him with a similar thud, his hands digging into the dirt to stop from falling directly on top of him.

"Ouch..." He winces, Gerome doing something similar as he gathers his bearings.

"Sorry. I wasn't expecting that. She's probably tired."

"No need for apologies, it wasn't your fault." He glances up at him, then blinks.

His glasses are smudged, and it's a bit hard to see, but Gerome's face is so close that he can view the details of it clearly despite that. The proximity, the almost touch, nose to nose, something about it sends a hot flash through him, and he finds himself paralyzed. At this short distance, he can even see Gerome's eyes through the mask, though only little slips of color through filtered cloth -- it's more than usual, and he stares, startled.

And Gerome stares too, watching, and something is...Different, the air feels almost cool while his temperature rises by the seconds. There's a moment's brush of skin, nose to nose, a little bit--

"Ugh, training AGAIN, Gerome? Don't you care about anythin- Oh! Oh gross!"

Gerome scrambles off of him and Laurent sits up in a hurry, rearranging his glasses and gathering his hat from the ground.

"Severa, what- what are you doing here?" The words stumble over his tongue and feel heavy and thick, yet somehow they come out too quickly, his voice a high pitch, unlike the usual.

"I was going to train, obviously, but not anymore! I don't think I ever want to step back on this field again, with what I just saw!"

"What-- Severa, I'm sure you're misunderstanding something. We simply fell--"

"Sure, if you SAY so. But that was something I never wanted to see!" She sticks her tongue out and makes a fake gagging motion. "I don't want to even THINK about anyone doing things like that, let alone SEE it! Gods, you're both so inconsiderate! It's still daylight, you know?"

"You're misunderstanding." Gerome mutters, but she pays him no mind, shaking her head and turning away, jogging back towards camp. Over her shoulder, she calls out, "The training grounds aren't for private meet ups, you dopes!"

An awkward silence falls over them as the sound of her jogging fades further out. Gerome wanders towards Minerva, who makes an apologetic grumble of a noise, and Laurent can't quite look at him directly, chooses instead to look at the ground.

"That was...Lamentable. I suppose we'll have to sort things out with her at a later time."

Gerome makes a short sound of agreement. Laurent rises and dusts himself off.

The heat he'd felt keeps crawling up his spine, through his arms, across his face, and a little part of him wonders what would have happened had Severa not come by, but he refuses to pursue the thought. In the short moment he does, there's a feeling that something will shift, that something already has, and he shakes it off as much as he can.

"I'm going ahead."

"O- Oh. Certainly. Excellent work today."

"You too." And he's off, hand on Minerva's reins, and Laurent knows he could catch up if he wanted to -- but instead he watches as Gerome disappears towards the camp, his figure growing smaller and smaller until it's just a minor dot, only identifiable because of Minerva's wings.

* * *

Sand.

It's this again, he thinks, waking up in a dune, hot dust across his face, sand digging against his skin, inside his robes. He feels for his mother's hat and finds it still there, a relief, and he rises.

Again, he takes a step, the sand burying his feet, and again, he wonders if he's arrived properly, in the right spot, the right time. He already knows that he hasn't, this time.

 

Hazy, the scenery changes, and then, grass and leaves and twigs underfoot, and he feels younger, smaller. The forest isn't burning, and the sky still blue, so he thinks that this is maybe a memory from long, long ago.

To his left, the sound of play fighting, a young Owain, a young Cynthia, a young Gerome, Brady, Kjelle. Noire and Yarne in their own small corner, fretting over the toddler Morgan. Inigo and Severa and Nah, all arguing, giggling. Lucina, at the head of it all, cheerfully watching over them.

He doesn't remember this, not in such vividness, such detail. But he wishes he did. Wishes he knew what this peace felt like as an adult, not just a child.

 

The scenery shifts again. The desert, the moment he'd been seen, had seen Chrom, had seen his mother, had felt relief--

\--things change again, campgrounds, Gerome, rounds, Gerome's request.

It is a fascinating thing, what dreams will remember versus what they will create, and while the thought is a mere haze of an idea in the midst of his dream, a part of him wonders, wants to experiment, do research on such phenomena, even as he wanders through a half-baked memory.

At that time, they had only really known each other by name, barely acquaintances -- even as children, they had never spent too much time together. Gerome had been livlier, then, and Laurent, a natural bookworm, tearing page by page through texts before things had truly gone awry. By the time they had begun speaking to each other more, the world had been worsening and there had been no time for idle chatter.

The dream runs through it quickly, a filtered memory, clips of conversations. Gerome coming to him, asking, and how he had felt confused, almost irritated until he'd seen the look on his face and understood something, had felt a sense of camaraderie. The quickest pass of a grateful expression on Gerome's masked face before he'd turned away and left, still gruff with him at the time. The feeling that had left him almost empty but not quite, a moment's warmth like a match, blown out in the next.

And then Gerome is there, again, and they're speaking, doing rounds, and nothing feels wrong, it feels how every round feels, and then the training grounds, and this battle is particularly fierce but those days do come, pent up or in top shape, and then that moment, Gerome's face above him and the slightest brush of skin--

\--and then sand and more sand, grating against his nose and face, filling his throat--

\--and then Gerome, disappearing into the hot desert sky, like an illusion all along, and then his mother and everyone, one by one, and it falls away behind him into pitch black like it always does, every single time, and yet--

 

* * *

 

\--he wakes up, breath caught in his throat, nails sinking into the cot.

A nightmare. Again.

He stares at the ceiling of his tent, then looks to his makeshift desk in the dark where his papers and his glasses lie. Looks further down and takes in the soft light that dances in the spaces between his tent and the ground, little flickers of bright that move with the wind, scattering in the dirt. Fascinating, how light could travel in such a way. Had he been born an artist, he would have sought to capture said image, the way light maneuvered through even the smallest, pin-sized hole and reached, reached until it could reach no more. But instead he watches, waiting for his heart to steady and his mind to calm, watches the light brush against the dark.

He swings his legs to the edge of his cot and sits up, checking the momentum so that he doesn't fling himself off the bed. He grabs his boots and pulls them on, unhooks his cloak from the small makeshift hanger and wraps it around his shoulders -- the night is cool -- and lifts his glasses from the desk. And then he rises, dirt crunching under his heels once before simply shifting away as he walks, light steps that make little noise, hushed and slow movements.

The ones on night duty this evening, if he remembers correctly, should be Gerome and Minerva, and possibly Chrom for the later shift. Robin may have talked him out of that though, in which case, someone else would have taken his post, probably Robin, in that imaginary circumstance. If it's Chrom or Robin, Laurent thinks that he may just go for a walk instead of sitting down by the fire. They were both kind to him, but it was always a little unnerving to see them so young, so different.

It's just Gerome though, at the lowlit campfire, tending to it with an awake Minerva that swivels her head to look at him when he steps closer. Her eyes watch him, following his motions until she can make out the details, or perhaps smell him, or some other sense -- either way, she recognizes him and croons quietly, a sound made for him alone. Or at least, he likes to think that. It could just be a sound reserved for every person she knows well, or every person she's seen with Gerome often enough, but Laurent likes to believe that it's just for him, a signal to both him and Gerome that they're there.

His thoughts are strange tonight.

"Laurent." Gerome frowns. "It's late."

He had turned to look when Minerva had crooned, had taken his hand off his axe at the sound. Now, he stares at him, or at least, at his general direction, waiting for an answer.

Laurent says, voice wispy, "I am aware of that."

A pause.

"Couldn't sleep?"

His thoughts are turning.

"Something akin to that."

He settles himself next to Gerome, and the proximity is something he notices, this time. They're shoulder to shoulder but not touching, though the metal of Gerome's shoulder guards pokes him once when Gerome shifts to make more room for him.

Laurent curls inwards when he sits, pulling his cloak further over his shoulders before settling his hands onto the log they're sitting on, palm against the wood. He doesn't know why he's so aware, why there's a strange sensation like Gerome is radiating heat, even though the fire is in front of them.

Thinking of heat reminds him of the dream, and he frowns, pressing his hand to his temple in an effort to stop the incoming headache.

"What's troubling you?"

"Ah, it's nothing too..." Words escape him, his vocabulary falls from his grasp as the headache rises and recedes, "Troubling. Just a headache."

Gerome nods, says nothing more. Laurent smiles ruefully, taking off his glasses -- they hurt more than help, at the current moment.

"I should do more research on those headache remedies I had planned to study. I've been meaning to look for more solutions, but things in camp always draw my attention. Though, distraction by tome is my ignominious mistake."

"Is that the cause of your headache then? Late night reading?"

"Oh, no." Laurent shakes his head slightly, winces because it hurts. "This was..."

His voice trails off, and he considers, would it be all right to tell Gerome? The nature of his nightmare had been...More personal, the parts of it he can remember are the parts that always come up in his nightmares: sand, and then the darkness, pitch black nothing that he always fades into in the end. Hardly a dream one could talk about without some discomfort, though he finds he doesn't really mind telling Gerome.

But then, would Gerome want to know? While they had been, recently, in a more intimate friendship, Gerome was hardly the type to be interested in people's deepest thoughts and dreams, and where their boundaries were, Laurent was uncertain. They were friends, tentatively, as Gerome often said that he didn't make friends, and comrades, and they understood each other well -- but was that enough to count as close enough to discuss the personal doubts that plagued him?

Still, his thoughts are strange tonight, and the words escape before he has chance to think them through and rein them in.

"This was a nightmare. I often have a singular nightmare," Deep breaths to still his shaking hands, "of the desert."

Gerome is silent, and Laurent worries that he's gone too far, spoken too soon. Intuition tells him that it's fine, not to worry, but intuition is hardly enough to form a solid truth.

"...I see. And?"

He blinks.

Maybe intuition has more weight then he thought.

"It...Weighs on me. When I wake, I realize how foolish it is, to be so shaken by a dream, but..."

"While you're dreaming, it feels real."

"Yes, exactly." He gestures vaguely in the air. "Where I landed... _When_ I landed...I feared the worst. The memory lingers, and I still..."

He can't continue, his throat locks up and he looks down and away, taking deep breaths, shaky.

"Forgive me for pushing my dilemma onto you." Again, the headache rears, and he massages his temples once more. "I don't mean to impose. You already have more than enough on your mind, I know."

"It's fine." Minerva gives a soft warble in agreement, and Laurent sees, just in that instance, why Gerome calls her cute. "We all have our vices. We can only seek to overcome them in time."

He can't help but smile thinly at that. "Well spoken indeed."

The fire crackles as they fall into silence, one familiar and comfortable between them. It's soothing, Laurent has always found it so, a kind of peace that feels rare and fleeting in such a tumultuous time.

"...And you? Have your headaches lessened?" He asks, out of courtesy, and curiosity.

He sounds tired, the same resigned weariness from before when he answers, "...Not really, no. They're the same as they've always been."

"How troubling."

He blames the headache for his lack of tact when he speaks again. "Are they from nightmares, like mine? Or just thoughts? I've had my fair share of headaches from overthinking tomes, new spells and the like."

For a minute, or maybe more, maybe less, Gerome is still, and Laurent regrets asking. Why he had thought that it would be fine to ask was beyond him, he knew very well the way Gerome drew his boundaries, especially in regards to his personal matters. Even though they had drawn together, gotten closer, it was far too arrogant for him to assume that Gerome would open up to him in such a way.

"...I overstepped my bounds. I apologize."

The fire crackles, snaps. The embers flicker orange.

"...I do get nightmares."

He turns to look at him, wide eyed, pulling his sliding cloak back up around his shoulders.

"What?"

"I do get them. Nightmares." Gerome looks at the fire, and his profile in the low light is sharp, defined, regal in a way that reflects his mother. "Nightmares of before, of the people we couldn't save. Of another fruitless future. Of the past..."

"Ah, yes. Those." He smiles bitterly, "I am familiar with those nightmares as well. The bitter past, and the empty future from which we came..."

Quiet descends on them once more, and the fire flickers with only the soft sounds of Minerva's breathing, and the camp.

"Your past...What nightmares do you have?" It is mostly curiosity that drives him to ask, now that he knows, he wants to know more. He wants to know more about Gerome, about the things he had missed and lost to time, the fears that drive him. 

Gerome stays silent, as if contemplating, and Laurent finds himself strangely at peace with the stretch of time. Whether Gerome tells him or not, he's already learned something valuable, something personal that he would usually prefer to hide. It satisfies him, the knowledge that Gerome trusts him with that much.

"...My parents never came home." He says, whispers almost, and the strain in his voice pulls Laurent closer. "Sometimes I remember how it felt, waiting in an empty house, never sure if they would ever come back."

Laurent nods.

"I...Do understand. In our future," And the memory surfaces like bubbles in water, "They...Never found my mother's body. Only her hat. Waiting for them to find some trace of her...I truly understand."

"It's difficult to sleep when it's on your mind." Gerome says, and Laurent agrees. There's nothing much to say, after that, until Gerome begins to speak, tone unsure.

"Your circumstances...Earlier, you said _when_ you arrived to this time." Gerome glances towards him. "What did you mean?"

"That..."

Laurent considers telling him, telling him what haunts him the most often. It's something he prefers not to share, would almost rather forget than remember.

It only takes a minute to decide.

"You are aware of when Lucina first arrived, correct?"

"A few years earlier than the rest of us...Or so I thought." He answers, and Laurent nods.

"Yes, she arrived before the time we had planned on...But at an ideal time to try and stop the death of the Exalt. Though, she did not manage to succeed."

They're quiet, a silence of respect, a moment of grievance.

"I, however, arrived...Earlier." He gestures into the air, one hand holding his cloak and the other waving about, almost aimlessly, as if to convey the concept. "Five years earlier than we all had planned, to be precise."

He gets a strange and distinct feeling when he speaks, like the first time he had explained what he meant by _when_. It's an easier conversation with Gerome then when he was speaking with his father, somehow, he finds himself more relaxed. Maybe it was because Gerome was his peer both then and now, considered a friend or a comrade, while his father had always been a grander figure in his memory, a protector, a parent, not the man he was now, not the person he was now.

"Due to the nature of time travel, things were...Off a bit, here and there. As one would figure. I simply was the most anomalous of us, in regards to timing."

"What did you do, with all that time?"

"Studied." The memories come flooding, the dry taste of the air on his tongue. "Read the wealth of texts that our time had lost."

What compels him to speak next, he does not know, but when he starts, the words flow out one after another, relentless.

"The desert...Was harsh. After the first few hours, I wondered if I would survive." He feels parched. "I was weak when I first found a village, weak when I found out _when_ I was, and the memories are..."

The sand. The gritty wind, the heat bearing down on him, the _fear_ \--

\--his breathing is short and rapid, he realizes. Gerome does too, is alarmed, unsure of what to do.

"Should I get Brady? Or someone? Robin?" He asks, and Laurent shakes his head. No need to wake them for this, not at all. It'll pass, as it always has and always does, he hardly needs to be examined for it, and if he was he would have to explain all over again.

His cloak begins to fall off, with all the shaking, and his hands aren't steady enough to pull it in place again. Gerome looks troubled as he reaches over and pulls the cloak back onto his shoulders, holds it secure while Laurent gathers his bearings.

It takes a few minutes, as expected, shivering and sweating and remembering before slowly calming down, focusing on a small blade of grass by their feet.

There's grass here. Not just sand shifting relentlessly under his feet, or the sun bearing down on him.

He takes a breath, and another.

The weight of Gerome's hands. Another person he knows. The campgrounds, the sound of people turning in their tents, the people he had meant to find -- the shaking stops, dwindles down into minor tremors, and soon he returns to his previous state, though with more exhaustion then before. He takes another few minutes to compose himself further, just trying to breathe, does so until the shaking stops near entirely.

He turns his head to face Gerome, still feeling the vibration of his nerves under his skin.

"Thank you." 

Gerome nods.

"You're all right now, then?"

He means to answer, but the words get stuck in his still dry throat.

The firelight is dim and yet, the light from it is sharp against the shadows; it accentuates the nobleness of Gerome's features, the delicate details that can be seen despite the darkness. His worry is noticeable in his mouth, the hard downward curve that's pulled tight and thin. His hands are still on Laurent's shoulders, reassuring weight, fingers sunk into the skin and pressing down, an unintentional, unconscious display of concern. Their thighs are touching too; somehow they had moved closer together in the course of their talk and he feels it now, hyper-aware of the slightest movement, the vaguest amounts of pressure where they make contact with each other.

Laurent licks his lips, swallows. The trepidation from before is still running through him after all, it seems, but it's twisting itself to this moment, wrapping and twining around him until he can't organize his thoughts.

Something is changing again, like in the training field, a subtle shift into an atmosphere with a meaning he doesn't know.

Gerome is watching him carefully, but he's clearly affected by it too -- there's no reason for him to keep his hands on his shoulders, but he does. His fingers loosen until he's just barely touching the cloth, featherweight, the touch of the wind, but every motion he makes, Laurent feels like it's skin to skin, and his touch is softer with every moment. He moves to put his hand against Gerome's cheek without thinking, fingers edging around the mask, thumb grazing against the space where thin metal meets skin.

Orange, yellow light flickers across their faces, the edges of his face blurry, out of focus, and Laurent can't quite make out anything else but the sound of snapping wood in the fire and his own heart beating, Gerome's breathing.

He doesn't know what this is. This is something he's never encountered, like this, his scars against Gerome's skin, the sensation that passes through his fingertips.

They're closer, now. Nearly forehead to forehead. The hand around his glasses closes tight, damp. There's the touch of cool metal and a leather glove.

And just as a millimeter of space lingers between their lips, the world slowing down, seconds into hours, Minerva warbles, a sound for hello, and they pull apart so quickly that he almost tumbles off the makeshift bench onto the ground.

Chrom comes in from the distance, waving at all three of them. Laurent stands up and shoves his glasses on, nodding goodbye to Gerome and Minerva. He nods at Chrom too, a quick greeting, and then walks stiffly back to his tent before Chrom can ask him what they were doing, because he can't in honesty say for sure.

His insides feel like they're burning. When he reaches his tent, he tosses his cloak onto the desk despite knowing he'll regret it later, sinks into his cot and holds his head in his hands, glasses going askew. It's hot, and while he knows that he was in close enough proximity to the fire for that to happen, the main source of heat isn't from the outside in, it's from the blood that's rushed to his head and the twist in his gut, warm from the inside out.

They had been so close.

He can still feel his lips tingle from the soft rush of air that had come from Gerome's mouth, from touching his skin. He's trembling. So close, his hands on his shoulders, the color of his irises through the mask, the way everything had been, in that juncture of time, different, slow, breathtaking -- he lies down, overwhelmed by the memories, so fresh he could fool himself, if he closes his eyes, into thinking he's still there.

This feeling is so strange. It hurts, but he wants more of it. An absurd thing, irrational and frustrating, a throbbing in his chest, energy coursing through his veins.

What did Gerome think of it? What was his opinion on the moment they'd shared, where the world had focused in on them alone? Had he noticed the way Laurent's breath had stuttered, the rise of heat to his cheeks, how his skin prickled, had he felt any of that? Or had it just been another thing passing by, had meant nothing at all?

What did it mean to himself, even?

In this regard, Laurent can guess the longer he lies on his bed and cools down.

He shakes his feet out of his boots, maneuvers fully onto his bed and takes his glasses off, placing them to the side.

The only logical conclusion is that he's fallen for Gerome. There is no other illation that he can come to that makes sense -- strong platonic feelings wouldn't lend themselves to what he feels, it's not just friendship that stews in his stomach. He's never wanted to kiss his other friends, never wanted to rely on them in the way he wants to with Gerome, has never reached out, almost as if possessed, just to feel their touch, has never wanted anyone to feel this way for him. Now that his thoughts have gotten this far, as he looks back, he's astounded at how dense he had been. It was nearly from the start of their rounds together that the very seeds of this emotion had started growing, the exact moment, he's unsure of, but the memories in his head lend themselves to the idea. He had been getting fonder and fonder with every talk they had, and had managed to delude himself otherwise until this very night. It's embarrassing to think about, that he, one who prided himself on being vigilant to other's states, had completely missed his own condition.

The night is passing by with little regard for his thoughts. Already, the dark outside is growing brighter, and soon, he thinks, it will be light out.

...What should he do?

There was little precedent for this. Gerome had never looked to be interested in romance, had a lack of enthusiasm the few times they had discussed it at random. In fact, Laurent could quite easily say that he disliked it, with the way he had scorned the rumors around camp and frowned at the budding relationships between their allies. Laurent can hear these conversations long past clearly in his mind, "There's no time for something like that. We're at war."

Though, he had said that months before this very night, and maybe his mind had changed, since then.

Wistful thinking, he knows. It was unlikely for Gerome's thoughts on romance to change anytime soon, and even if they had -- there was still the matter of them both being men. While reading history texts, he had found suggestions of such things, but reading about it wasn't the same as seeing it in front of him and knowing for certain that there were others who shared such passions. There was no real way to go all the way back in time just to confirm those suggestions, and the very idea is dreadful anyways, trying to go so far into the past. The most common pairing within history and fiction was usually a man and a woman -- predictable, as children were far more likely in that scenario. Though the thought of having children chills him, as well as the knowledge that some pairs don't reproduce at all, and he stares up at the ceiling feeling a frenzy of uncomfortable emotions.

Sleep. That's what he needs. His next course of action will require a great amount of thinking, and sleep deprived thoughts are proving to be more harmful than helpful.

He stares at the wall of his tent, towards the direction of the fire pit.

_I hope he sleeps well._

* * *

The next time he does a round of camp, he does so alone.

Finding Gerome had proven to be impossible. Somehow he had managed to hide both himself and Minerva in camp, somewhere Laurent didn't know -- the thought is painful from both a platonic perspective and a romantic one. He can't conclude why Gerome is hiding from him either, or if that's even really the case; they had always just happened to meet at the same time, and things had flown naturally from there. They had never actually agreed to do the rounds together past the first few times, for all Laurent knows, he may have just gotten tired of coming with him. So he takes it in stride, strengthening his resolves. It's fine like this, because now he can think, organize his thoughts into a coherent and sensible list instead of a jumble, and then come up with a plan.

For a week, Gerome doesn't find him, and he doesn't find Gerome.

It's a dismal state of affairs, as a week is far too long not to see someone in camp, and it confirms that Gerome is actively avoiding him. Within a few days Laurent finds himself asking the other wyvern riders if they had seen him, but they had shrugged and said that they had seen Minerva around, but not Gerome. He seemed to have gone back to his old habits, at least, that's what they had assumed when he had asked. The very notion deflates him, after how well Gerome had done with creating better relationships, it would just be a waste of all that time and effort that Laurent knew he had put in. Even at dinner time he can't find him, while the others say they've seen him around, no one seems to know where exactly he's went. It makes it difficult to execute his plans with confidence, but he would truly regret not speaking to him about this at least once. Even if Gerome responded with repulsion...

...He shakes his head. He's been thinking carefully, the past few days, trying to recall every moment they had spent together. While his feelings and how they colored his perspective needed to be considered, Laurent is certain that at least, that one night by the fire, Gerome had been responsive, had been...Willing, had came towards him the same amount, had reciprocated the motions made, actions taken. It's a small hope, lacking in evidence and grasping at the thinnest indications, but still, he really does believe that something was there. That something, hopefully, is there, because as it is, he feels his heart will metaphorically break.

It's strange. He'd never really been one for ardor and romance, busy with his studies, but the feeling now is strong despite that. He had never understood the gossip before this, what others had meant when they spoke about their relationships, the way it sent trembles down their spines and made them weak and strong, but now, now he feels it all, tightly wound into a coil, shivers through every piece of his body, all just from the thought of Gerome, of a millimeter further.

When the next week is halfway through, Laurent takes a deep breath and gathers all the ends of his courage to stand in front of Gerome's tent, the sun settling into the night. Minerva is, curiously, not sleeping or standing nearby, and the lack of her presence is so strange he finds himself apprehensive of what could come.

Still, he speaks softly at the tent flap, "Gerome? I, er, need-- I mean, I wish to speak with you, if possible?"

There's silence. He wonders if Gerome is even in his tent at this time. It's still possible that he could be out training, which would explain the lack of Minerva. Or he could be asleep, which, Laurent feels apologetic at the thought, hopes that he hasn't woken him, won't wake him now.

"Gerome?"

Silence. He closes his eyes with a sigh and prepares to leave, turning back only to see Gerome coming towards him, dirt still across his face, hair disheveled and clearly fresh from sparring, a small dent in one of his shoulder guards. Laurent's heart jumps into his throat.

Minerva seems happy to see him there, greeting him with the sound she usually makes for him, but Gerome looks taken aback.

"Lau--" He swallows, "Laurent."

"I wanted to speak with you." He says, adding, "Ah, but, if this isn't a good time, then, erm. I...Suppose I could come again, later."

"N-no, now is fine. I--" He takes off a glove and runs it through his hair, and Laurent watches, engrossed in the action, "--come in. Inside."

And so he does, following him from behind, trying his best not to break into a cold sweat. He can feel his skin prickling despite his efforts.

Gerome sits on a stool that he's apparently taken into his tent and faces him, still standing in the doorway.

"What's on your mind?" Quietly. Without any indication like prior of what he's thinking of Laurent's surprise visit. Laurent swallows.

"I--" When he had thought about this, when he had been running through simulations, it hadn't been so heavy, but standing here now, everything is paralyzing. Shivers running up and down his legs, a stiff spine, sweaty palms and a parched throat.

"Laurent?"

"I thought about you." He blurts out, and it's as if he has no control over his mouth, "I-- While strange and unorthodox as it may seem, I-- Will you take off your mask, please?"

"What?!"

"Urgh." He shuts his eyes tight. "Just- it's a predilection of mine, to see you without it, possibly. But I hadn't come here for that, I do promise that much."

"What did you come here for, then?"

"I--" He can't stop once he starts, "In our recent interrelation, I've found that I have a strong partiality towards you, and I want to surmise that you have such feelings towards me as well, though, I don't believe so, and am perfectly aware that I may be delusional with my--"

"Laurent," There's a clatter, and he opens his eyes to see that Gerome has stood up, "If I'm understanding this correctly, then you--"

"I," A deep breath, "I'm attracted to you. You're captivating and comfortable to be around, and sensitive while staying sensible. Being with you is a pleasure like no other I've experienced."

He says it straight, grateful for Gerome's mask because at this distance, he can't see his eyes, can only see his shock, mouth opening and closing the slightest bit while searching for words.

"I don't mean to burden you with these feelings of mine. I simply...I couldn't hold them in anymore." He looks down, has a fleeting thought that he needs to clean his boots. "If you don't..." He gestures into the air, unwilling to say it, "Well, I would understand, naturally."

Gerome seems to be lost for words, and a silence stretches out, expanding into the tentspace. Laurent finds it suffocating, but he stays still, hoping to hear some sort of response. Anything would suffice, as long as it was some kind of affirmation that Gerome understood his words and had thought about them even minutely.

Finally, in the coming darkness, Laurent hears him speak.

"...Laurent. Look at me, please."

And so he tries to breathe and looks up, pushing his glasses back to their proper place.

Gerome's hand is on his mask, and Laurent stops breathing entirely. Momentarily.

In the back of his mind, something keeps working in the background to maintain him, natural human instinct continues its work, and so he manages a few shallow breaths and very little trembling when Gerome takes his mask off, looking at him bare.

"I..." He closes his eyes once, and without the mask Laurent can see all the little details, how he's trying to collect himself, "I don't do this for anyone, you realize."

He can't respond. He wants to, desperately, but his throat feels tight and his hands are at his sides and everything, in the dim, dying light and the rising dark of the coming evening, is too much.

He licks his lips and answers.

"Yes."

"Then you...Should know my answer as well."

Without the mask, everything on Gerome's face feels almost overly expressed, the doubt and the shyness, the lowering of his eyes to the floor, the blush on his cheeks, the everything about him.

It's exhilarating. Laurent had known the little details, had committed the ways he expressed himself with the mask to memory, but this is overwhelming.

"...If my assumption is correct, then..."

"You truly understand me." He says, and Laurent's heart soars, aches. "And that...I had never considered the possibility, but over time, you became...Important to me, in a way unlike the others."

He looks up then, expression strangely bold, staring directly at Laurent in a way that makes him feel like prey on the plains. It strikes him totally still, unable to break his burning stare.

"You make me feel as if peace has already come, and like a storm is brewing within me all at once." A breath. "Being with you is calming, yet I struggle because of what I...Want from you."

He's gotten closer. Laurent hadn't registered him walking forward until they're only an arm's length away, and their heights are so evenly matched that he's staring near directly into Gerome's eyes. Swallowing down the lump that's formed in his throat, he asks,

"And what is it that you want?"

Gerome looks away when he asks that, the flush on his face reaching down to his neck.

"If you, and I, were..." The anticipation is enough to make him tremble, and Laurent tries his best to keep steady, closed fists wrapped in his clothes. "Were something...More than before."

He coughs into his fist, face bright red. "Did I say it clearly enough for you?"

That's enough. That's more than enough, Laurent almost collapses on the spot, the tension easing out of his body in one fell swoop.

"That was," A bubbling happiness that comes from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head escapes out his mouth, "absolutely magnificent."

Gerome doesn't say anything, but Laurent can see the flush creep further down, all over his skin, and he can't help it, he laughs.

"What are you-?!"

"Forgive me," He takes off his glasses, still chuckling, "I'm not laughing at you. I just feel so...Relieved, honestly."

"Oh." Gerome watches him, and his expression speaks for him, amused and baffled, a little soft.

"You should laugh like this more." His smile, Laurent is certain, is unconscious, a deep fondness that reaches his eyes, changes his whole face. It's something Laurent wants to share and hide all at once.

"I hope to do so." He smiles back. "It seems that our companionship has had quite the positive result."

"Yes, I fully agree." Gerome reaches out, hand barely reaching Laurent's cheek, "I could ask for no better company."

It's a light touch, what comes after.

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy here we are again
> 
> I've been so busy with school and my longfic for a different fandom and just like life in general but this ship hit me right in the feelios again and so. here I am
> 
> I just get like monthly feelings and then have to spend like two weeks on off writing something or other. I'd draw but for some reason they never look right and ANYWAYS,,,,,, I've wanted to write an S-Support for them for the longest time and so I finally did and it extended itself as I couldn't really bring myself to just write the dialogue style that the game has. Hopefully you all got the feels that I got while thinking about this because I really enjoyed doing this even though it was also a lot of struggling, and hopefully people will get more into this ship, yeah? Anyways, hope you liked it!


End file.
